


put your emptiness to melody

by kaywayy



Category: Avatar: The Last Airbender
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Orchestra, Angst, Bisexual Sokka (Avatar), Chronic Pain, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Gay Zuko (Avatar), Injury Recovery, M/M, Orchestra, Past Abuse, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-19
Updated: 2021-01-19
Packaged: 2021-03-17 06:27:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,839
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28844577
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kaywayy/pseuds/kaywayy
Summary: Zuko had everything: a life, a family, a seat as a first violinist in one of the world’s most famous orchestras.He had everything—until he didn’t.And he’ll stop at nothing to get it back.or, an orchestra au where Zuko is recovering from a near career-ending injury, Piandao is trying his hand at match-making, and Sokka just wants everyone to appreciate the viola.
Relationships: Sokka/Zuko (Avatar)
Comments: 53
Kudos: 143





	put your emptiness to melody

**Author's Note:**

> hi!! so the orchestra au is here!! thank you to everyone for the encouraging messages and suggestions that made this fic possible, so so much love to you guys!! 
> 
> —
> 
> special thanks to [clem](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lovefindhope/pseuds/lovefindhope) and [softlygasping](https://softlygasping.tumblr.com/) for beta reading this for me!! y'all are my lifesavers! 
> 
> — 
> 
> so a couple of things to note before we get started. 
> 
> -I took a page from that midnight sky by zukkababey and changed Zuko's scars. I agree that in a modern universe, creating a circumstance for a facial burn is really difficult and in some ways unrealistic (especially since they're like famous here). I wanted to create a scar that has the same narrative impact as the burn though, so Zuko's dad broke his left arm and caused him to sustain a head injury, which leaves him with tinnitus in his left ear. The trauma of the break in his arm then caused him to develop compartment syndrome, and he had to have an emergent fasciotomy immediately following the injury. I'm giving y'all all the gross details here bc we know zuko and he's not gonna tell us in this chapter and I want y'all to know the circumstance behind his scar/injury completely. Essentially, his dad banished him from his life through this injury (intended to make him unable to play) in a similar way to how the burn marked him as banished from the fire nation. so if you're asking yourself, is playing the violin supposed to represent fire bending in this modern universe?? then mayhaps you would be correct! 
> 
> -so that means no burn! but he does have a very large scar on his forearm and a small one around his left eyebrow and on his scalp (but that's not seen because of hair you know). if you're not grossed out by scar images, [here](https://docs.google.com/document/d/15DKVbIBdGQnn1FfK6_5qxGfRGnJNF2Fz9aLakQ36E5o/edit?usp=sharing) is a reference for what the scar looks like. 
> 
> — 
> 
> also quickly since it's not completely mentioned in this chapter, but i know everyone will be wondering here's a list of characters and the instruments they play: 
> 
> -Violin (Zuko, Yue)  
> -Cello (Katara)  
> -Viola (Sokka)  
> -Oboe (Suki)  
> -Double bass (Aang)  
> -Timpani (Toph)  
> \-- They use a haptic baton in the orchestra, which allows blind musicians to feel the conductors movements, this also isn't mentioned in this chapter, but just so you all know it's going on in the background 
> 
> — 
> 
> title is from “to noise making (sing)” by hozier
> 
> okay that's all see y'all at the end!! hope you enjoy!

Zuko has packed up his life twice in as many years, the concept of belonging, of _home_ , so far removed from himself at this point he’s unsure he ever knew it at all. 

He watches as the landscape changes slowly, hour by hour, his endless view of trees turning to the vibrant, bustling sight of the city. He’d almost forgotten what it was like to be surrounded by _so much_ , the simple monotony of his life in upstate New York cementing itself much deeper within him than he’d even realized. As much as he’d been grateful for his uncle’s home, for a place to heal, with that space came the memories of his failure, of the possibility that he could be stuck in the cramped house for the rest of his life if he didn’t recover. 

They arrived in Toronto to his belongings already unloaded into his new apartment, and he stands in the doorway with fingers gripped tight to the only familiar object he has left, the leather handle worn to his hold. 

“It’s nice, don’t you think?” Uncle says, moving to stand by the windows in the small living room. “You have a wonderful view from here.” 

Zuko can’t stop the scoff as he drops the bag from his shoulder, shifting the weight of his violin case to his other hand. Uncle sends him a knowing look, not needing an answer from him to know what he’s thinking. 

“I’m going to practice,” he states, turning quickly on his heel to avoid any more _looks_.

The new apartment is small, stiflingly so, with one bedroom at the end of a short hallway, and one of the tiniest bathrooms he’s ever seen off to the side. He tries not to let it bother him, this current reality of his life, reminding himself that it’s only temporary, that it works for what he needs it for during the next few months. 

He finds himself in the bedroom, the meager boxes stacked beside the doorway, his bed already set up and shoved against the far wall. Zuko picks his way around the boxes and sits down heavily on the bare mattress, stopping himself from dropping his head into his hands. He doesn’t have time to mope around or feel sorry for himself, he needs to _work_. 

A familiar, dull ring has made a home in his left ear, the pitch crescendoing as if plucked from him by his own hands on a bow. 

_Two years._

It’s been two years since Zuko last gripped the handle of his violin case and stepped into the halls of the Chicago Symphony Center. 

_Two years_. 

He forces himself to breathe deep _once, twice, three times_ , the distraction lessening the ring, but its presence never manages to leave him completely. 

_That would be too easy._

Zuko had once lived a life only seen in the pages of a novel, in the runtime of Hollywood films, in a space that didn’t exist on this plane—not without a price. His days were filled with rehearsals in foreign cities, on hundreds of stages, the smell of old parchment thick in the air—the scream of bow on string the only lingering sound. 

Then one mistake… an _accident_ … had taken it all from him. 

In lieu of concert halls, his life was reduced to the cramped white of hospital rooms, doctors offices, the clinical smell of alcohol replacing the comfort of rosin, of wood, and a _ring_ replacing the hum he longed to hear. 

Zuko no longer looked out to an awed audience hanging onto every note, every pizzicato, every movement he made; instead, he gained the concern of doctors, of physical therapists, of his _uncle_. 

His uncle, who never once left his side in the two years he’d been recovering, who took him to every appointment, every session, the fear in his features slowly replaced with resignation, of acceptance. 

An acceptance of his future that Zuko refused to acknowledge. No one expected him to recover, to be able to play at the same level again—but he’d done it. As soon as the ache in his arm no longer seized control of his fingers, he started to play. His progress was slow, _infuriatingly slow_ , beginning with scales and working up to pieces he’d learned as a child, barely managing not to scream when he missed notes on pieces he deemed as being so far beneath his skill level that the struggle was as frustrating as it was embarrassing. 

Eventually, with more than a year’s worth of patience, hours of excruciating practice, his playing returned to the level it was before his injury, becoming as much a part of him as the scar now snaking the length of his forearm. 

A part of him that—no matter the circumstance—he will _never_ lose again. 

When he’d gotten the email, the offer from his old mentor Piandao, to join the Toronto Symphony Orchestra as its interim concertmaster, he felt like he could _breathe_ again. The months— _years_ —he spent agonizing over the loss of his passion, returned to him with simple words on screen, an offer to continue with a life that had been halted—stolen from him. 

Uncle had been less than pleased, insisting that it was too soon, that he still needed to rest and heal, that he wasn’t ready for endless months of rehearsals and performances, _not yet_.

For Zuko, it had been more than long enough. He could handle the pain—the ringing—if it meant he could be _himself_ again. 

So no, he didn’t need to rest anymore. He didn’t need to heal. What he needed was to use this opportunity to prove to himself, and to his father, that he was worthy of coming home. 

_All he wants is to go home_. 

So he’ll take his tiny apartment, in an unfamiliar city he wished was another, if it meant he could be closer to leaving it. 

He practices for hours, playing through his audition pieces until he physically can’t anymore, until his left wrist locks and his hand spasms and he is forced to stop, and he thinks it’ll all be worth it, it has to be. 

****

The atmosphere in the car is heavy—fraught with tension—too many words unsaid but present all the same. Zuko curls his hands into fists, the movement forcing a sharp, ache of pain up his left arm, stopping suddenly at his elbow as if meeting an unbreachable wall. 

“Nephew, are you listening to me?” 

“Yes.” His answer is curt, short. 

Slowly, he extends his fingers one by one, biting back the hiss that waits behind his teeth—eager for release. 

Uncle sighs heavily, stroking over his beard with one free hand, the other firm around the wheel. The only sign of his rising nerves, nerves mimicking his own. 

“I want you to know that you don’t have to do this if you’re not ready. I—” 

“—I don’t have time to be ready! I’ve already lost two years, I can’t afford any more than that,” he interrupts. 

Uncle sighs again, drumming his fingers as they wait at a stoplight. “The doctors said it’s possible you—” 

“I’m not having this conversation.” He narrows his eyes. “Drop it.” 

Iroh drops his head, defeat evident in his posture, but his tone remains steadfast, resolute in his disagreement. “I think this is a mistake.” 

“I know mistakes, Uncle. My life is just–just a series of mistakes.” His breath catches in that place deep within his chest. “This is my chance to make things right.” 

“I can’t bear to see you hurt again.” He turns his head briefly to hold Zuko’s gaze in his own. 

Zuko sinks back into the seat of the car, turning his head to glare out of the window. His uncle says something else, but he’s no longer listening. His violin case rests upright between his knees, the weight a comfort as well as a burden, heavy only in theory. 

They’d been in Toronto for a few days, Uncle insisting on staying with him until he’s completely settled. In that time, he’d pored over the past performances, taking care to learn at least a few of the features, and familiarize himself with the current prominent members—including the Angnatuk siblings. 

He’d heard of the cellist, Katara, in passing before his injury, prodigies not often missed by himself. Though he knew she had a brother, he wasn’t aware that he’d also obtained a principal chair in the ensemble. He’d assumed that he played an insignificant instrument like the viola as a cover-up for his inferiority to his sister, who he was surprised had stayed in Toronto as long as she had. 

“We’re here, Nephew.” 

Zuko lifts his head from where it rests against the window, blinking up at the impressive rounded glass circling the outside of the infamous Roy Thomson Hall. 

“Will you… are you going to come in with me?” he asks, reaching to cradle his case in his arms, unwilling to open the car door just yet.

Uncle smiles, the creases around his eyes deepening, warm despite their earlier conversation. “Of course.” 

Zuko nods once. He won’t admit it out loud, especially not now, but he wouldn’t be here at all if it wasn’t for Uncle’s support—regardless of how against his current decision he seems to be. He still would never leave Zuko, even if he asked. 

Together, they make their way inside the building. The chilled air prickles the exposed skin at the back of his neck—the few hairs that had escaped his top knot only aid in sending a similar chill down the rest of his body, resulting in a single twitch in his limbs. 

Uncle looks at him from the corner of his eye at the movement, but thankfully doesn’t ask. Zuko doesn’t have the words to explain his hypersensitivity, his relentless anxiety, how he still isn’t used to the short length of his hair, how the sensation of the loose strands is as unfamiliar to him as everything else about this situation. 

After all, he is Zuko Sozin—son of one of the world’s most accomplished violinists and the conductor of the Chicago Symphony Orchestra—he doesn’t have the privilege of fear. 

“Zuko! How lovely to see you again,” a voice from behind says. 

He turns, a hesitant smile lighting his features. “It’s nice to see you too, Piandao.” 

Piandao shakes his hand and Uncle’s in turn, sweeping his arm out in a grand gesture. “Welcome to our little corner of the world,” he starts. “I know it’s no Chicago, but I do still hope that you find it agreeable.” 

“Oh no, I–it’s perfect. Um, I’m really honored for the opportunity to audition for you.” His ears burn as he stumbles over his words, fighting not to ball his free hand into a fist. _Get it together, Zuko._

“Audition? Zuko, I _invited_ you here as interim concertmaster.” His head tilts. “I’m sure I said that in my email, my apologies for the miscommunication.” 

“It did! I just… I don’t feel right about being offered a position, especially since I’ve… been out of commission for a while. If I don’t hold up to your standard then it’s better to know now, right?” 

“I can’t think of anyone else I’d rather fill this spot, but if you insist, I’d love to hear you play.” 

Play. That he could do. 

Awkward, bumbling conversational skills aside, at his core Zuko is a _performer_ —his violin invoking everything he himself lacks. 

Piandao leads them to his office, the small space inviting, warm, _comforting_. The desk, the walls, the shelves are full of various knickknacks, photographs, spare batons and sheet music, nothing matching but cohesive all the same. He can’t help but compare it to the minimalistic, harsh tones of his father’s office, a place where he was only summoned if he had done something wrong. Where he had gone the night of the accident, where he had emerged bloody— _broken_ —rushed to the hospital by his Uncle’s panic, to wake up to an arm macerated, a head shorn. 

A harsh breath forces itself from his nose, the sound almost wheeze-like as it punches from his lungs. He can’t think of his father, not here, not when doing so always seems to make the ringing in his ear double. He’s lucky it’s currently at a soft thrum, he can’t afford for it to spike, to throw him off of his pitch, to force him to make another mistake and be laughed from this office. _He knows how his luck tends to play out._

“Whatever you’ve prepared is fine,” Piandao laughs then, turning to share a good-natured glance with Uncle. “Well, besides the scales. I’m sure they’re brilliant, but I think we’ve all heard enough A majors to last us a lifetime.” 

“I was going to play a few excerpts, um–from _Scheherazade_ and _La Mer_.” 

“Ah! Gorgeous choices.” He seats himself behind his desk. “Whenever you’re ready.”

Uncle pulls the chair across to face Zuko, settling himself down and giving him a single thumbs up. Zuko stops himself from rolling his eyes, the childish gesture having no place in this situation. 

He takes his time to remove his instrument from its case, tighten and rosin his bow, before playing through his warm-up exercises (including the A major scale, though that is less intentional and more habitual). 

Eventually, he clears his throat, turning to face the other two men. “I’ll start with the _Scheherazade_ solo.” 

Piandao gestures for him to proceed, leaning back in his chair and folding his hand across his chest. 

Another deep breath centers him, his eyes slipping shut as he raises bow to string, jaw to chinrest, holding steady as he counts himself off in his head. 

He opens with the melody, the elegant and flowing sets of triplets, pulled free from his expert fingers over the board. The vibratos are clean, sharp, the ache in tone an eerie mimic of the pain he’s been in for too long. He reaches the bottom of his fingerboard, the higher octave difficult but he manages, moving back out to the repeated melody, the notes sweeping, bold. 

The excerpt ends, the flurry of movement at the closure of the piece cut off with a final elongated note. A smattering of applause reaches him from the two sitting across the room and he flushes, dropping the violin from his chin. 

“Just as beautiful as I remember, Zuko. Truly wonderful performance,” Piandao says, the pride in his features not lost on him. 

“Thank you.” He squares his shoulders, lifting the instrument again. 

_La Mer_ is quick, technical, chosen specifically to highlight his ability to perform emotive pieces as well as the more complicated, light movements. The excerpt is short, shorter than he would’ve liked, but the technique packed into a minute’s worth of material is unmatched: showcasing exactly the player he is without drawing out the process. 

Zuko finishes with the final pizzicatos, the short tones hanging in the room, and looks up to see Piandao standing from his seat. He crosses the small distance between them and extends his hand. 

“Welcome to the Toronto Symphony Orchestra, Concertmaster Zuko.” 

  
  


****

Sokka loves September. 

The end of summer brings with it the start of the orchestral season, which means he can do what he loves _and_ see his friends for the first time since break started. Being a professional musician means traveling—constantly—so he’s lucky if he can see anyone other than Katara for longer than a few hours before they’re off to a new city, a new performance. 

Today is the first rehearsal of the season, so as per tradition, his closest group of friends are in their go-to coffee shop, with their go-to orders, at their go-to table, and Sokka can’t imagine being anywhere else. 

“Did you guys hear who’s replacing Jeong Jeong as concertmaster while he’s away?” Suki asks. 

“Wait, Jeong Jeong left? Why didn’t anyone tell me?” Sokka looks between them all affronted, mouth slightly agape. This, as it turns out, is a mistake because Yue takes that opportunity to shove the end of her coffee stopper against his teeth. He shrieks, spitting the offending object out and turning a glare onto the giggling girls, who apparently are _conspiring against him_. “Excuse me!” 

“Sorry! I had to, you can’t blame me!” She turns her face into Suki’s neck, who sits perched in her lap like there isn’t a perfectly good chair next to them. _Ugh, girls_. 

“Honestly Sokka, if you read your email more often, then maybe you’d be in the loop,” Katara speaks up from beside him, taking a sip from her iced chai. 

“I can’t be expected to read _emails_ , who do you think I am?” 

“I’m literally blind and I still keep up, Snoozles. Do better,” Toph deadpans. 

“Is it just ‘gang up on Sokka day’? Did I miss the memo?” He crosses his arms in a pout. “I’m still waiting on someone to tell me what happened.” 

“He’s on leave to travel or something, I’m not really sure,” Yue answers. “Although, I don’t know why they needed to bring in a new concertmaster when, as _associate_ concertmaster, I could literally just… do it for the season.” 

“Aw babes, Piandao is just afraid of your talent honestly, what a coward.” Suki soothes her hands through Yue’s hair, tugging playfully at the ends. 

“If you guys could stop for one second.” He shakes his head. “Who’s the replacement?” 

“Oh, Zuko Sozin.” 

His mouth drops open again, and this time no one sticks anything into it, _thank the Spirits_. 

“ _Zuko Sozin_?” he manages, voice rising an octave towards the end in a resemblance of a squeak. A very manly squeak. 

“Oh God, don’t get him started.” Katara puts her face in her hands, already prepared for his reaction.

“I’m sorry, you can’t just drop that _The Zuko Sozin_ is going to be playing with us and expect me not to care!” 

“ _Ooh,_ does someone have a crush?” Suki teases. 

“This is nothing, you guys should’ve seen him the first time we saw him and his sister play in Chicago, I thought Sokka was gonna run on stage and propose right then.” She pitches her voice in a mimic of his, “' _Just look at him Katara, he’s so gorgeous, I’ve never seen someone play like that’ blah blah hands blah_.”

“Hey! Most people have their bisexual awakenings to, like, Ryan Gosling or something, I just happen to have _taste_ and _class_ and mine was over a cute boy playing Ysaye like something straight out of my _dreams_.” 

“TMI Sokka. Seriously, ew.” Toph mimes a retch, and Sokka’s ears burn. 

“NOT LIKE THAT!” 

“Sure, sure. Your ‘dreams’ were completely innocent. We definitely believe you,” Suki says straight-faced, before bursting into laughter. The laughter echoed by the rest of the girls at the table. 

“ _Anyway_ ,” he attempts to move on, “hasn’t he been out for—” 

“Hi guys!” an overly enthusiastic voice interrupts. “Sorry I’m late! I didn’t miss anything, right?” 

Aang seats himself at the table across from Katara and next to Toph, tapping the sides of his green tea. 

“We were just talking about the new concertmaster,” Katara tells him, making the ickiest oogie eyes in his direction. 

“Oh! Zuko!” he beams, blowing on his tea. “We go way back, I can’t believe he’s here!” 

“Wait, you know Zuko and you’ve just never told any of us?” asks Sokka. _Who keeps that kind of information secret?_

“Yeah?” he looks between them all, eyebrows knit. “We met a few years ago at some competition and bonded over our shared shameful love of Vivaldi,” he sighs dramatically. “It’s so overplayed but, man, do the four seasons just hit, you know?” 

“I’m gonna pretend I didn’t hear that,” Sokka starts. “So do you know why he left the CSO?” 

“Oh, um. I haven’t actually spoken to him since before… that happened,” he admits, sheepish. 

“I heard he fell off the stage at the symphony center, messed up his arm really bad,” Toph offers. 

“Yeah, I heard something similar, he had to have, like, an emergency surgery when he broke his wrist in the fall because he got some, like, super rare complication,” Yue shrugs. “I read an article about it when it happened, but I don’t really remember the details.” 

“That’s rough, poor buddy,” Sokka frowns. “I only heard that he left. I didn’t know there was an injury involved.” He taps his chin. “I still don’t know why he’s coming here if he’s ready to go back to music, wouldn’t it make more sense for him to go back to Chicago?” 

“Maybe they just don’t have an opening?” suggests Suki. 

“His dad is the director, I’m sure they could squeeze him in,” Sokka counters. 

“Why does it matter?” 

“I’m sure it doesn’t, just, like, logically it doesn’t make sense.” 

“It’s an interim position, he probably wants new experiences or opportunities or something,” Katara says. “Maybe you’re reading too much into it.” 

“Yeah probably.” He sips his—now cold—latte. “Either way I’m looking forward to seeing him perform again.” 

“You’re just looking forward to ogling him from your prime vantage point in the viola section,” Yue says, poking his shoulder. 

“None of you are ever gonna drop that, huh?” 

“Wait, drop what? I asked if I missed something, didn’t I?” Aang asks. 

Sokka shouts “Nothing” at the same time as the rest of the table traitorously informs Aang about his former crush on Zuko. _‘Former’_ the keyword here because he’s _not_ a teenager anymore and has complete control over his feelings, thanks. But, that particular nuance is lost on his friends, and they proceed to make jokes at his expense for the next half hour in the coffee shop. 

Mid-morning turns to late afternoon, and eventually it’s time for them to part ways only to meet back at the rehearsal space. Sokka drives himself and Katara, who uses the spare time to _ignore him_ and write notes in her sheet music. 

The melody to Ysaye’s _Amitié_ plays on a loop inside his head, and he drums his fingers against the steering wheel, a soft hum emitting under his breath. 

It takes him a moment, a long moment, to realize _Amitié_ is the same piece he’d seen Zuko and his sister, Azula, perform a few years ago. He scoffs, shaking his head and focusing on the road again, he doesn’t have time to be distracted over a cute boy and his infuriatingly good violin playing. On a totally unrelated note, he spends the next several minutes of the drive forcing himself to hum Mozart’s _Eine Kleine Nachtmusik_ until Katara becomes so fed up with him she reaches over blindly to whack him on the shoulder. 

“Would you stop! I could go the rest of my life without ever hearing that song again, and now it’s going to be stuck in my head for the rest of the day!” 

“What do you mean? It’s timeless, a true classic, there’s a re—” The glare she levels him with is in no small way, _absolutely terrifying_ , so he concedes, holding his hands up in a placating manner. 

She turns back to her notes, and him back to his thoughts. 

Which, inevitably, means he thinks of Zuko. More specifically, how Sokka had seen himself in the playing of the other, how he’d almost seemed to revere his instrument, like _he_ was the one blessed to hold it and not _it_ for being held by someone talented enough to make it sing in the way he did. 

Even though the viola is a criminally underrated and underrepresented instrument, the connection he had to it is unlike anything he’d experienced before in his life. That is, until he saw his own adoration mirrored in a stranger. He _loved_ what he did—the endless worlds he could construct with just slight variations of the same notes on a page. 

Sokka had been drawn to the viola from the moment he and Katara decided to try classical music as a way to cope with the loss of their mother and the subsequent move from their hometown of Kuujjuaq in the Nunavik territory to Toronto. Katara had always been the better of the two, her talent as a cellist unmatched by anyone her age. She’d gone on to perform all over the world, winning countless awards, and still she’d always returned to his side in Toronto. The TSO became their home in the same way as the city. The orchestra holding a special place within them, not only for offering them the opportunity to become established professional musicians, but also providing a comfort, a sense of belonging. 

He hopes, though he doesn’t really understand why he cares, that Zuko can feel as at home here as they do; if only so he can witness him again how he had before, with nothing but passion in his eyes and in the music he created. 

****

Uncle left this morning after sharing a cup of tea and final words of advice with him before his first day of rehearsal, as if he was wishing luck to a child before their first day of school. Zuko had been cold, detached, watching the older man leave like his absence wouldn’t be the final break in Zuko’s resolve. His uncle the glue that had picked him up and stuck him back into the semblance of a functioning person, his absence taking away what little normalcy he’d come to know. 

The commute to the rehearsal space was spent in a daze, his mind shifting through everything he knows, the people he has to meet, the people he will pretend to tolerate for however long he’s here. 

Zuko finds the practice rooms rather easily, the quick tour Piandao had taken him on the week prior coming in handy. He picks the room at the end of the hall, the furthest from the door, and sets up his sheet music on the stand settling into the chair, which he moves to face the doorway. Distantly, he thinks it’s odd that on the first day of rehearsals, there aren’t more musicians filling the space down here, the silence thick where it presses against him.

He was always the first person into rehearsals in Chicago as well, him the only member of the first violins who ever needed additional practice—additional help—that fact never failing to come to his father’s attention. 

Some days he found it was better to practice elsewhere, someplace where he couldn’t be watched, where he could make a mistake without fear of consequence. When the weather permitted, he found himself by the water in Grant Park, in an isolated area where he rarely saw another person save for joggers or people walking their dogs. Where he could exist anonymously, and not as Zuko, the embarrassment to the Sozin family. 

It’d been far too long since he’d even thought of the park, how the rasp of the water against the shore had provided a natural metronome as he worked, how the infamous Chicago wind had almost stolen his bow from his hand mid-run too many times to count. Instead of comfort, the memory is bittersweet, sinking into his heart and squeezing—as if to stop the beat in his chest. 

As a distraction, he begins to play, his unsettled emotions on the same frequency as the vibrations in his hands. 

Two hours pass before he breaks. He’s run through his prepared piece over and over, agonizing over his intonation, his vibrato, his interpretation. After his ‘audition’ the week prior, Piandao asked him to prepare something to play for the rest of the orchestra, to introduce himself both personally and musically.

He’d chosen the first two movements from Shostakovich’s violin concerto no.1, had rehearsed it for hours every day, and he still wasn’t completely satisfied with his results. But, it’s not like he could play anything else—this is what he’s prepared, this is the decision he has to live with no matter the outcome. 

In the past, he never picked his own pieces to play, that luxury always fell on Azula or Father, Zuko never having the right foresight or skill or knowledge to make the best choice. Father would say he didn’t have a “musician’s intuition,” further proof of his inevitable inadequacies and failures. Zuko thinks he’s always been an imposter masquerading as a musician, intuition not the only concept separating him from the rest of his family. 

He runs through the melody of the second movement for a countless time, picking through the difficult runs _again, and again, and again_ , until his wrist screams and his ears ring and he can’t _focus_ on the pages in front of him anymore, not that he was looking at them much in the first place. Absently, he rubs at the sensitive skin stretched tight over his forearm, massaging the ache in his joint, eyes closed in an attempt to refocus. 

In the silence, he can almost feel his father’s sharp gaze between his shoulder blades, hear the disappointed scoff, the thud of a cane against his limbs. 

_There is no room for pause._

“You have to be worthy of my time, Zuko.” 

_Pick it up. Play it again._

“It doesn’t matter how much I help you, you’re never good enough.” 

_Play it again._

“An embarrassment.” 

_Again._

He shoves his body back against the chair, the impact forcing him against the wall. The crash of his music stand— _stupid wobbly music stand_ —hitting the floor jars him from his thoughts. 

His chest heaves, deep and painful, catching on every breath, the ring in his skull almost deafening. Zuko’s shaking hands grip his too-short hair at the roots, pulling tight in an attempt to lessen the chaos lying beneath the strands, the tug on his scalp a minimal distraction. 

A deep breath. Then another. And another. 

The instructions for his uncle’s breathing technique filter in slowly, evenly, and eventually the tightness in his chest lessens and he slumps forward, hand tightening on the neck of his violin, the strings digging into his palm. 

It’s another few minutes before he’s able to open his eyes, another few before he can pick up the scattered sheet music from the ground, even more before the ringing dulls. He smooths his hands through his hair, gathering the top half into his hair tie, leaving a few strands out to frame his face—to cover one of his many scars. 

He lifts his violin to his chin and plays through the music once more.

This time he doesn’t miss a single note. 

****

Sokka and Katara arrive at rehearsal later than they normally would, finding their friends had all beat them there. Of course, Katara blames _him_ of all people for this, and not the accident that had caused traffic to back up the streets of downtown. 

They part ways, but not far, her seat as principal cellist only a few down from his in the front row. He doesn’t miss how Pakku, her stand partner, gives her his signature disapproving look, which she returns but much, much worse. Sokka smirks, turning away from her and beginning his own warm-up exercises. 

But, as per usual, he can never focus on warm-up for too long, and he ropes his stand partner into a lively discussion on the most efficient way to re-string, when silence suddenly blankets the room. 

He looks up to see Piandao standing at the front of the room with his hand on the shoulder of a young man. Sokka blinks rapidly a few times as he double-takes because the man is almost unrecognizable. _It can’t be who he thinks it is._

Piandao clears his throat, stepping onto the conductor’s podium. “Hello everyone, welcome back. As I’m sure you’re all aware, we have a very special guest joining us this season who’s standing in for Jeong Jeong while he’s on leave.” He gestures for the man to step beside him on the podium. “I’d like to introduce you all to our interim concertmaster, Zuko Sozin.” 

The ensemble applauds, and Zuko meets the warmth of their welcome with tense shoulders, hands clasped behind his back—his expression empty, posture rigid, a picture of forced determination. 

“I’m happy to be here. I look forward to working with your esteemed orchestra this season.” 

_Happy? Yeah right_ , Sokka thinks. He looks across the room for the oboe section, to raise his eyebrows at Suki who shrugs, mirroring his bewilderment. 

“I have invited Zuko to perform for us, as an introduction of sorts,” Piandao says, smiling at the man beside him, though it goes unreturned. “The floor is yours.” 

At this moment, Zuko looks more like a man returning to war than one returning to the stage, the lifting of his violin and bow resembling pain instead of art, a weapon instead of a craft. But then, he touches bow to string and he is both perfect and empty, the long, emotive phrasing of the first movement of unbeatable quality, but lacking all the same. 

Seeing him now, Sokka can’t help but be reminded of the boy he saw perform all those years ago. The boy who stood upon the stage carefree, his violin only a vessel for himself, giving voice to the person picking notes from strings. 

Next to his sister, he shined in a different, sweeter light. Azula was perfect in every definition of the word—methodical and precise—undoubtable in her prodigy, her accolades. Even still, where Zuko lacked the same technical perfection, he made up for in his emotion, the raw, unpolished talent breathtaking in a way Sokka had never seen replicated. 

That Zuko had moved Sokka. 

That Zuko was everything he wished he could emulate and more.

But _this_ Zuko, the Zuko before them now is a shell of his former self—where once he was emotive, _powerful_ , now he is withdrawn, closed off, clinical.

Zuko hits every note with deadly accuracy, like arrows notched in the center of a bullseye, bullets landing over the heart of a target. 

He is perfect, undeniably so, but his _passion_ is gone. 

Sokka almost doesn’t believe he’s the same person, he can’t be. 

_What happened to him?_

He’d heard of his injury, had spoken of it earlier today, but he didn’t think he fully understood the depth of its impact. 

Zuko ends the first movement with a pause, eyes flickering open and landing directly on Sokka, who sits in the center of the front row. Their eyes meet and Sokka isn’t convinced Zuko even sees him, even notices that he’s looking at anyone in particular. His expression is indecipherable, but Sokka can almost read the sheet music in his head, behind his eyes, blank except for the notes he has to play. 

His eyes are only open for a few seconds before they shut firmly once more, the second movement already flowing from his fingertips. 

And this, this is almost _worse_. 

Where before he was detached—lacking emotion—now Zuko played with rage, an indisputable fury. 

Like fire. 

Like his bow had the power to ignite the strings, the wood, _himself_. 

Zuko is engulfed—the anger sloughing off of him in thick, endless waves, pinning Sokka to his seat through its weight. 

Distantly he remembers the nickname for this movement, the Scherzo: _Demonic Dance_. 

The irony is not lost on him. 

He ends without fanfare, dropping his arms stiffly to his sides, the room once again filling with polite applause. Piandao clasps him on the back, the touch causing the other to flinch, the movement so minuscule Sokka would have missed it if he wasn’t hyperfocused on the person before him. 

“Thank you, Zuko,” he says, gesturing for him to take the customary first seat to his left. Zuko inclines his head, sitting beside Yue, back rigid in his seat. 

“Now then, who’s ready to begin.”

**** 

The rehearsal passes in a blink, Zuko playing through the pieces as if on auto-pilot. Piandao had them play one of the movements from the season before, the rehearsal’s purpose more to get everyone used to playing together again after the months apart than for preparation. 

Zuko finds that the environment is laxer than he’s used to, Piandao’s critiques often thoughtful instead of harsh, his attention to a particular section inciting nothing except for understanding. 

The rehearsal itself is fine, easy even, but one thing he can’t ignore is the way everyone _stares_ at him. He’d removed his blazer halfway through, rolling his sleeves up to his mid-forearm, forgetting that in doing so he was exposing his scar to the rest of the room. 

For the most part, those curious enough to look would avert their eyes if he turned his head towards him: all but one person. The principal violist— _Sokka Angnatuk_ , his brain supplies—has been looking at him since he first sat down, returning Zuko’s glares with such an open expression that his ears burn and his teeth clench. _What is his problem?_

Zuko knows his scar is abrasive, stretching across the entirety of his forearm, from elbow to palm, in an s-shaped pattern. The skin raised and dark, muted red along the center. He knows he’s deformed— _ugly_ —but the way the other man makes that fact so apparent doesn’t fail to set him on edge, an edge he can’t come down from throughout the entirety of the rehearsal. The feeling of eyes on his skin is a sensation he can’t seem to shake, regardless of how hard he tries. 

He’s rubbing a clean cloth along the body of his violin when a shadow falls over his hands, obscuring his view. 

“Hi! You’re, uh, Zuko, right?” 

Zuko looks up slowly, meeting the earnest brown eyes in front of him. 

“Obviously,” he snaps, stuffing the cloth back into its pouch. 

“Ha… yeah… obviously.” The other rubs a hand across the back of his neck. “I’m Sokka. Sokka Angnatuk. I play viola?” He shakes his instrument case in front of Zuko, who leans away from the gesture. 

Zuko doesn’t answer, continuing with his clean-up process. He can’t get a read on Sokka’s intentions, his body tensed in preparation for the questions, the disgust he’s expecting from the way he had stared at him throughout the rehearsal. Zuko doesn’t miss the way his eyes flicker down to his exposed wrist, at the scar that edges into his palm, and up to his face, zeroing in on the other that rounds his eyebrow and disappears into his hair. He grits his teeth, snapping his case shut with a resolute click. 

“Is there a reason you’re still standing here?” he asks, voice dripping with thinly veiled disdain. 

Sokka’s features cycle through a multitude of expressions before settling on confusion—maybe shock? 

“I mean I was going to ask you if you wanted to get drinks with some of us,” he manages to say, “since–you know, you’re new to the area and um–new to our ensemble?” 

Zuko narrows his eyes. “Let me make something very clear: I’m only here to practice and to perform without any _unnecessary_ distractions. If things go to plan, this will just be a temporary annoyance that I’ll try my _best_ to forget before I go _back to my life._ ” He averts his gaze to a spot over his shoulder. “So just–stay out of my way.” 

The other man’s mouth drops, eyebrows drawing in. “Listen. I don’t know how things work in Chicago, but we’re a family here. This is our _home_. I don’t know why you accepted Piandao’s invitation if you clearly would rather be anywhere else.” He crosses his arms over his chest before continuing. “Who knows where you would even be without his invitation, it’s not like you’ve ever worked for anything in your life. It’s all just been handed to you, hasn’t it?” 

Zuko breaks, misdirected anger falling from him and landing squarely on Sokka. “Oh? And you’ve worked hard? Playing _viola_ ?” he seethes, words like poison—toxic. “I seem to remember it being your _sister_ who’s the prodigy. Your _sister_ who has the classical music world vying for her talent,”—a laugh, dark and humorless—”you know, it’s funny, I can’t remember hearing of you as anything other than an _anecdote_.” 

Sokka takes a step back as Zuko stands up, tanned skin flushed and eyes darkening, an affronted noise spilling from his throat. Before he can respond, another person joins them, cutting through the static they’d created between them. 

“Oh good, you’ve met,” Piandao says. “I need to speak to you two.” 

Sokka shoots Zuko another glare before smiling at their director. “About what?” 

“You’ll see.” He turns, looking at them over his shoulder. “Follow me.” 

He leads them out from the stage area and into his office, the two walking beside each other in frigid animosity. Vaguely, Zuko acknowledges that what he’d said was harsh, but it was as if he couldn’t control the anger pulsing out of him, fueled by the memory of Sokka’s gaze on him all afternoon. 

They sit at Piandao’s desk opposite him, as he clasps his hands over the surface. 

“I wanted to discuss my vision for this upcoming season,” he starts. “I think the two of you would work well together and play well together, so I’ve decided to feature you both in duets at our charity events and fundraisers, and with the ensemble during the season.” 

Zuko’s skin chills, freezing the breath in his lungs. “What… what will that entail, exactly?” 

“Well, I’m going to send the majority of the information as well as the schedule requirements to each of your Outlooks, but essentially I need you to work together to prepare a few duets on your own for the events, and the major pieces we play during the season will highlight the way the violin and viola work together. The duets are to give our audiences a taste of what to expect at the ensemble performances, as well as to introduce the two of you.” 

Sokka leans forward, elbows resting on his knees, loose curls falling from behind his ears to frame his cheeks. 

“Oh. There’s also going to be a promotional photoshoot for the orchestra next week, but you two are going to have an additional session with the photographer separate from the ensemble.” 

Zuko grits his teeth. “Is this the reason you asked me to join your organization?” 

Piandao looks between the two for a moment, head tilted to the side as he appraises them. “It’s not the only reason, no. You are an unbelievable talent, Zuko, and I believe the two of you performing together will be a fascinating experience for all of us and for our audiences.” 

He nods once, picking at the lint on his dress pants, trying to control himself before he spirals like he’d done only a few short minutes ago on stage. 

“That all sounds fine with me, I’m glad you recognize the beauty of the viola, it’s what she deserves,” Sokka says. He and Piandao share a laugh, but Zuko doesn’t understand what’s funny about this situation. 

If he’s only featured alongside the viola, instead of as an individual, how will that prove to his father that he’s improved enough to go home? If even Piandao, who recognizes his abilities, doesn’t believe that he is capable of his position, then who will? 

A muffled sound reaches him, and it takes a second for him to realize it’s his name spoken over and over again, the other men in the room looking at him strangely. 

“Are you okay?” asks Sokka, though Zuko can’t find a reason why he would _care_. 

He ignores him, looking back at Piandao. “Is that all?” 

“Yes, that’s all. You’re both dismissed,” he says. “Thank you for your time.” 

Zuko mumbles a goodbye as he rises from his chair, holding his case like a lifeline, blood thudding in his temple. He barely makes it a few feet into the hallway, when he has to pause and lean his back against the wall. The pitched ringing in his ear increases so quickly his vision swims, a wave of nausea crashing against him. He sets his case on the ground and holds his arms crossed to his chest, fingers digging into the skin above his elbows, eyes closed so tightly that bursts of color erupt behind his lids. 

“You don’t look so good.” 

He shoves down his groan, but _annoyingly_ his focus on the voice does manage to lessen the noise. “So you’re observant as well as infuriating, good job.” 

“Hey, you’re one to talk, Mr. _Lashes out at his handsome coworker for no reason when he’s just trying to be nice_.” 

The ring recedes enough for him to open his eyes, which he does only to glare at his _‘coworker.’_ “Shut up.” 

Sokka leans against the wall beside him instead. “You know this is all pretty ironic.” 

“... What is?” 

“Piandao interrupted you, mid-rant about how you don’t need any of us, which is _so_ rude by the way, only to loop us together for the rest of the season,” he laughs with humor, the mocking tone Zuko is expecting absent from his voice. “I’m just curious what you think about it now, your highness.” 

“Don’t call me that!” 

“Okay, okay, please spare your thoughts then, prince Zuko,” he teases. 

“I _think_ that I want you to leave me alone, and I _think_ that Piandao is making a mistake,” his voice hardens. “The least he could’ve done is had me feature with another violin if that was his goal, but viola?” His head shakes against the wall. “I just hope you don’t hold me back.” 

Sokka pushes away from him. “If you want to act like this, fine. It’s not going to change this situation, and it’s only going to make it miserable for both of us, but if that’s what you want, if that’s what makes you happy then, whatever.” 

He walks away, leaving Zuko where he’s still reclined outside of the office door. “I’m never happy.” The words leave him quietly, without his control, but still, the figure before him pauses, head turned slightly to the side. 

“And whose fault is that?” 

Then he’s gone, leaving Zuko to parse through the simple phrase, its significance striking him like the wind by the shore of the lake. 

Zuko had a lot of experience with ‘fault,’ most things in life he admits are due to his own actions, his shortcomings a reflection of himself. But how someone—a _stranger_ —can cut him down to the barest version of himself so easily, can force him to reevaluate his words, is more baffling to him than he cares to admit. 

_Fuck_ , he thinks, as he begins his trek to the bus, to return back to his tiny apartment in the city he doesn’t care to know, _what is he going to do?_

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> ahhh so what do we think?? i hope everyone enjoyed, sorry for all of the angst i really couldn't help myself :( 
> 
> come scream at me on [tumblr!](https://zukkau.tumblr.com)  
> — 
> 
> [here](https://docs.google.com/document/d/1eZGUbCbl0MdiItDPSMTZgglGBnU5LTutTwf_qvuwdEQ/edit) is a resource for all of the songs mentioned, as well as photos of what the rehearsal space/concert hall looks like!
> 
> but I also made a [playlist](https://youtube.com/playlist?list=PL-cxD51Dt1yPKkKEIMC-F09uEMwHmU9Bk) that has all of the clips together !!


End file.
